


Five Trophy Boys (And One Real One)

by inkjunket



Category: Bandom
Genre: 5 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-09
Updated: 2007-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkjunket/pseuds/inkjunket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete knew head, and this was not nice, rhythmic mid-Western head, or fast and slick New Jersey head, or slow and sultry Southern head, or noisy and syncopated Chicago head (totally different category from mid-Western head as a whole). This was one-of-a-kind trademarked Spencer Smith head, with maybe a small dose of thank-you-for-signing-my-band head, and Pete may have had morals, but he wasn't a saint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Trophy Boys (And One Real One)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/bandslashmania/profile)[**bandslashmania**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/bandslashmania/)'s [pornathon](http://community.livejournal.com/bandslashmania/36332.html). Many, many thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/greendreaming/profile)[**greendreaming**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/greendreaming/) for her fabulous beta skills, and for the title.

Ryan was the first member of Panic! to go down on Pete. Or at least, he was the first to try. But as it turned out - with Ryan's lips inches from Pete's groin, and Ryan's breath coming fast as he fumbled with Pete's belt with one hand and cupped him shakily through his jeans with the other - somehow in there, Pete's brain kicked in and he found himself pushing Ryan off by the shoulders and trying to lean further away into the wall where Ryan had shoved him.

"Hey, hey," Pete said, like he was trying to soothe some little woodland creature or something, because Ryan totally looked like a deer in headlights, "If we do sign you, it's not going to, er, go down like this." His dick sent a frantic message to his brain of _no, no, ~~he~~ \- it can totally go down like this!_ but Pete took a deep breath and put on his best older brother I-can't-let-you-do-this-to-yourself-'cause-I-know-better face.

Ryan, for all that attitude that he put on, looked hesitant and young as he shook his head and said, "No, but – I want this – " but Pete smiled and stepped back, pulling him up.

"Really, you guys are good. You're not going to have to get this on your knees."

Ryan barked a little laugh, and grinned sheepishly, but the relief was clear in the way his face relaxed a bit, became less hooded. "I just thought. I mean, you're Pete Wentz."

Pete laughed back. "I know, right? Who'd have thought I have morals? God, what's wrong with me?"

*

He texted Patrick from the airport on the way back from Las Vegas. _totally rocked. hot too._

He could almost see the eyeroll Patrick texted back. _Gr8_.

*

Spencer was next, which surprised Pete - although thinking back on it later, it wasn't surprising at all. Pete went to see Panic! early on, maybe their fifth show when they started touring. It was the kind of show where a euphoric glow just settled over everything – the crowd fucking _loved_ them. They came running off the stage at the end, all grinning like idiots, high on the fumes of sweat and dancing bodies and music thumping in their chests. Pete moved in to hug them all and thump Ryan on the back and yell, "Told you!" in his ear. When he got around to Spencer, Spencer just grinned back at him with this fucking ecstatic grin like Pete had no idea Spencer's face could make – he thought it was mainly locked in that teeny bitchy pout that he did so often. Then Pete pulled him in one-armed and kissed his cheek, and Spencer pulled back, and something shifted in his face, and Pete suddenly felt like a little bitty bunny rabbit hit with the full glare of this wolfish grin from Spencer, whose eyes were half-lidded, and whose cock was half-hard when he moved just a bit and pressed it against Pete's thigh.

Somehow (Pete swore he lost time in there somewhere), Pete found himself with his bare ass pressed up against a venue bathroom wall with Spencer's fingers clamped onto his hips and Spencer's sweet, sweet mouth wrapped around his cock, getting some of the best head Pete had had west of Nevada. Pete knew head, and this was not nice, rhythmic mid-Western head, or fast and slick New Jersey head, or slow and sultry Southern head, or noisy and syncopated Chicago head (totally different category from mid-Western head as a whole). This was one-of-a-kind trademarked Spencer Smith head, with maybe a small dose of thank-you-for-signing-my-band head, and Pete may have had morals, but he wasn't a saint.

Pete moaned; he could feel his hips trying to buck into Spencer's mouth, but the fucker had an iron grip. He drew back just long enough to make a small _tsk!_ sound and give Pete a disapproving look before leaning back in to bite a line down Pete's thigh and then – thank you God – bringing his mouth back to Pete's cock. Pete let his head fall back, and let one hand curl around Spencer's neck. Spencer wrapped his hand around the base of Pete's cock and started moving his hand in time with his mouth while his other hand ghosted over Pete's balls and god, Pete _loved_ drummers and their mad crazy multitasking ambidextrous skills, because Spencer had somehow managed to lick his fingers and was working one finger into him, then two, and Pete felt like he was just going to explode. He could hear a few choked words coming out of his own mouth that made no sense even to him, and then Spencer was gripping his dick like it was in a fucking vise and he was standing up, thrusting his thigh between Pete's splayed legs, and fucking Pete's mouth with his tongue, fast and dirty and Pete couldn't breathe for the blue balls he was getting. He writhed against Spencer, who gave him that wicked grin again, dropped to his knees, and took him in, and then Pete saw stars in the stars etched onto his eyelids.

Pete knew fair was fair, and as soon as his legs stopped shaking, he slammed Spencer up against the wall and gave him the best thanks-for-signing-with-my-label-and-then-rocking-really-hard head he could.

*

Patrick came with him at first to a few Panic! shows when they were in the same town, but then he stopped coming after a while, to go work in the studio or call his mom or stuff. Pete told him he was a doofus, but Patrick just grinned sideways at him and Pete didn't really have a comeback for that.

*

Brent did not give good head. Pete had a feeling it wasn't going to last with him and Panic!, especially when he said as much to Spencer as he was licking his way down Pete's happy trail one night after another fucking kickass show, and Spencer just looked up at him and twisted his mouth in that Spencer-y grimace.

"Yeah, really awful. All teeth, and not in the good way." Then that Spencer grin, and then he was doing that thing where he dragged his lips down Pete's cock while he slicked up three fingers and – Jesus.

Spencer was a fucking nympho, Pete decided, but then, pot calling kettle, so. Pete had a feeling, somehow, that with this, the gayest band since gay was created, there might be a problem with Brent's lousy skills in bed. He hoped it wouldn't mess too bad with the band.

*

"It was bound to happen," Pete told Patrick, "he gave really bad head." Spencer laughed in agreement, but Patrick just gave him a look and went back to kicking Spencer's ass at Guitar Hero, and Pete was left with the feeling that he kind of might have been an asshole somehow just then.

*

Jon Walker was fucking awesome. On stage, but you know, also in bed, on his knees, on his back, on top – and Pete didn't go there for just anybody – and when he asked Pete, totally straight-faced, "Is this some kind of Panic initiation ritual?" and then laughed until he cried at the look on Pete's face. So Pete almost forgave him when he made an honest, monogamy-loving man out of Spencer Smith and permanently erased him from Pete's metaphorical dance card. It was a fucking crime, but at least Pete got a threesome out of it, even if it was a one-shot deal. Well, a two-or-three-shot, really. They made the night count.

*

Spencer, Jon, Pete and Patrick were at an all-night diner in the middle of Kansas or somewhere. It was cold in the place, and to stay warm Pete threw himself onto Patrick's lap as much as was humanly possible in a cramped shitty diner booth, which led Jon (Jon, of all people!) to say something about a double date just being foreplay for a foursome, and Spencer chimed in with some question about how did Patrick skew on the Kinsey scale, and then Spencer gave Pete a raunchy look, and Patrick gave him a weird look. And Pete just found himself laughing at all of them, but blushing a little – blushing? really? – and ordered another round of cheese fries.

*

Brendon was fun and laid back in spite of his hyperactive tendencies, and he let Pete fuck him slow and sweet and God, it was great, but then, Brendon clearly had a thing for Ryan, and had for the longest time, and even though Ryan was the straightest man ever to wear a rose-covered vest, Pete decided he really didn't want to be that guy. Besides, if anyone could bring Ryan Ross over to the dark side, it would be Brendon. The kid was fucking _persistent_.

"I know you and me weren't meant to be and all, Pete Wentz, but that doesn't mean you can't find true love somewhere in the great big world out there." Brendon had his eyes open really wide and earnest. He looked like fucking Bambi. And maybe it was the fact that they had just finished watching _Aladdin_ – the perfect Disney break up movie, they'd both decided – but Pete found himself feeling a little maudlin and letting himself list against Brendon and saying, "Yeah, Brendon, but where's my fucking prince?"

And Brendon, the bastard, the little deviant cheeky slippery weaselly monkey, somehow wrested his Sidekick from him in one fell swoop and spent the next hour holed up in the bus bathroom, texting Patrick love sonnets. Pete was going to kill him.

*

Sometimes, Pete knew, he was really stupid. But then he had moments of brilliance, like when he finally got Joe and Andy out of the bus with the promise of vegan meetbawl subs with cheeze at the hippie deli down the street from where the bus was parked. Patrick was alone in the bus lounge. Pete crashed onto the couch and swung his feet up onto Patrick's lap.

"I love you, Patrick Stump."

Patrick grinned ruefully at him. "I love you too, man."

"Thanks. Fucking Brendon."

"Yeah."

"But so. We broke up. If you can call whatever we were doing, er, break-upable." He looked at Patrick out of the corner of his eye, trying to read his expression.

Patrick just looked at him like he was acting strangely, but then said, "Sorry, man."

"It's all right." And Pete didn't know what made him feel like it was right, but he leaned in, and just touched his lips to Patrick's. Patrick let out a little breath, like a bemused _huh_ , and Pete pulled back to look at him.

"Is that how you kiss all the girls?" Patrick asked, and then he grinned, and Pete grinned stupidly back, and then Patrick planted one hand at the base of Pete's skull and pulled him in and. God. It was so much better than fucking _anything_.


End file.
